


The Road from the South

by Evandar



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 05:44:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12314916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: Boromir hasn't truly rested since he left Gondor, and he knows that it should rightfully be Faramir on this quest, but that doesn't stop him from following the road north to Imladris.





	The Road from the South

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zdenka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zdenka/gifts).



> I loved the idea of writing Boromir's first meeting with Elrond. But then Faramir kept on intruding, and Elros kept wanting to be mentioned, and this is what ended up happening. Hope you like it!

The sun is fading by the time he first spies a sign of life. The foothills of the mountains are a sparse and unending landscape: there have been few trees since he rode north into Dunland, and fewer signs of people. What there have been, he has avoided, having no desire to face the Dunlendings with none to aid him. Further north, the mountains rising high and white on his right, he found the remains of buildings: arches crumbled with age and overgrown with holly. His steed had spooked in that strange place and he had moved on swiftly, taking camp on the next rise and not truly resting.

He hasn’t truly rested since his last night in Gondor. His body aches with weariness and there is a throbbing behind his right eye that has become as constant a companion as his horse.

“There are no maps that show the exact location of Imladris,” his brother had told him, “but they agree that it’s north of the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil; west of the Misty Mountains and south of the Ettenmoors. The city lies in the foothills, somewhere along the path of the Bruinen.” Each map that Faramir had shown him was different – some of them placing the Elven city almost in the mountains, while others claimed it to be more to the West. Some sources, ones that Faramir had discarded with a look of contempt on his fair face, had claimed the city did not exist at all.

“An Elven map would give us better knowledge,” Faramir had said. There had been dust and cobwebs in his hair and an impish tilt to his smile. “Perhaps if you find them, you can ask for one.”

It should have been Faramir on this quest. That thought has dogged him since the beginning, and each day he travels, the more he feels that he made a mistake in coming. The vision was Faramir’s too, and Faramir, he knows, would be better suited to the company of whatever strange beings await him at journey’s end. 

Elves. Strange beings indeed.

He has quite lost track of how many days he has travelled by the time he finds evidence of civilisation. The sun is setting to his left, and his head is drooping from weariness, and it is as that fading light shines across his road that it lands on a white stone, turning it to brilliant red. Boromir blinks and tugs on the reigns, pulling his horse to a halt so that he may look closer.

The stone is no bigger than the palm of his hand, and smooth. Its placement would have appeared accidental as it lay nestled amongst other stones, had such smoothness not implied a lifetime in a river. No river has ever touched this craggy hilltop – though Boromir spies one in the distance, winding red and orange towards the sea. Whether or not it is the _correct_ river, he does not know, but the stone gives him hope that it might be.

Rejuvenated, he mounts his horse once more and continues north, keeping a close eye on the ground for anymore white stones that lie upon the path. He follows them, turning from his northward road, down into a valley, which he follows east towards the mountains. He dismounts again, to walk his horse through as the terrain grows rough and the valley sides grow high and steep on either side of him. He feels constricted, but he lowers his head and walks on; his shadow long in front of him.

He would have missed the turning had not the sound of rushing water reached his ears. A glance around for unseen rivers led him to spot the small crack in the canyon wall: a path, almost entirely concealed, save for the smooth, white river rock placed deliberately on a high ledge. It is narrow, but, he realises, just wide enough for his horse to pass through.

He glances again at the rock. Faramir’s words echo in his mind. “Elves are ancient beings, brother, with a reputation for answering yes and no at once. You’ll probably find them frustrating.” His lips twitch into a rueful smile and he clicks his tongue as he guides his horse through the narrow opening and onto a thin, winding path. He is yet to meet an Elf, and already he finds their ways as much of a riddle as the one that has disturbed his dreams of late.

He marches on. White stones decorate this path more freely – dotted here and there on little shelves eroded by long-gone streams into the rock wall. The sound of water is almost deafening, but he is yet to see a single drop of it. He marches on. The path turns and twists and doubles back on itself, and by the time he finds its end, the light has gone. He feels his way through the canyon, his eyes adjusting to the dark, only to stumble when, finally, after a final bend his path opens out into a deep valley. 

Varda’s stars shimmer down on a valley filled with waterfalls. The air is cool and light in his lungs and once he has regained his footing, Boromir cannot help but pause a moment purely to breathe. And to stare. Once again, he feels a pang in his breast that it is _he_ seeing this and not Faramir; his beloved brother who would have been able to appreciate the city’s beauty with words that Boromir has never troubled to learn. Because in this valley of tumbling water _is_ the city of the Elves: fine buildings grow from rocky outcrops; thin stairs and arching bridges navigate the endless waters. Silvery lamplight glows from every window, and over the sound of the water, he can hear laughter and queer voices.

He swallows hard; the moisture in his eyes and the lump in his throat are entirely involuntary.

He walks on. It’s brighter here than it was in the canyon, and his eyes catch on small details. Statues and sheltered pools; the glimmer of eyes in the trees and the way that the lamplight casts shadows strangely. He can hear voices whispering. His Elvish is basic at best, but he knows enough not to fear his audience even as he travels further into their city.

He bids farewell to his horse in a small courtyard fragrant with flowers and lined with fruit trees. His path leads him across a narrow bridge towards a flight of stairs, and he cannot see any stables attached. What he can see is a tall figure silhouetted by silver light, and he feels his throat go dry at the thought of finally meeting one of these strange and magical beings. It should be Faramir’s honour, he reminds himself again, and he vows to commit everything he has seen so far and everything that he will see to memory so that he can describe it to his brother when they meet again.

By the time he has crossed the bridge, the Elf has reached the foot of the stairs. Even out of the lamplight, he seems to shine: a star-like glow seems to emanate from his very skin. His hair is long and dark, and his face is fair, but it isn’t that which kills Boromir’s greeting before it can leave his tongue. It’s the familiarity. He knows this face. He has seen it painted on murals and carved into statues since his childhood. Images of this Elf’s kind grey eyes have followed him as he has grown and have witnessed the rise and fall of his noble country.

It is impossible. He knows the stories – of course he knows them – but his mind rejects the very idea of them even as his eyes and heart know them to be true.

“Welcome to Imladris, Boromir son of Denethor,” the Elf says, and his deep voice is somehow exactly as Boromir had always imagined it.

He forces his mouth to move. “You honour me, Lord Elrond,” he says, his own voice as dry as dust. 

The Elf smiles at him, kind and welcoming, and turns to guide him up the stairs. Boromir follows, numb, this ancient remnant of the past – the very image of the first great King of Numenor. Elros Tar-Minyatur yet preserved in flesh.


End file.
